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Moe Bad Kahmah by Ray Printer Friendly

Oh, you mad, crazy fools. I’ve been up since some entirely unreasonable hour, and I’m still awake, wondering where the voices truly come from…right now, “the inner ear” has odds, “the middle of the brain” is a close second, and “the soul” is dead last. Oddly enough, “the cream cheese in the refrigerator” is coming in at third.

I fell asleep last night thinking that it’s only a matter of time before I start sweating cholesterol. I’m gross-fat, and I can’t seem to find any self control. I’m still fighting the urge to mug bums for their used cigarette butts, man. How the hell am I supposed to quit over-eating, as well?

So “The Simpsons: Season Six” came out on DVD today, as well as “Sin City.” I watched Simpsons after work today, until my princess got off of work. Today was her first day as a teacher, by the way.

Picture this: you’re hanging out, doing whatever, and you get really hot. So you decide to take a quick dip in the river. As soon as you get neck-deep in the water, you feel a sharp pain. And then another. And another. And you suddenly realize that you’re in piranha-filled water, and you can’t get out for something like seven hours.

That’s like her job now, man. Except for at least you can try to kill the piranhas. If you’re a school-teacher and you start killing students, I think they write you up or something. Can you imagine that? Losing your job just because of self-defense?

Anyways, so she made it through—apparently she has some defense called, “I like kids”—but with battle scars. I can’t imagine, man, I really can’t. Being surrounded by kids that aren’t yours. You can’t hit them, you can’t kill their pets—how the hell are you supposed to control them? She ignores my urging to get a class pet—like a hamster or a goldfish or something—to keep them in line.

Here’s something you might not know—I don’t like kids. If you walk up and show one to me, I’m probably just going to try to scar it emotionally. I don’t do that baby-talk shit, and I don’t talk down at all. Like this:

“Hey, Ray, this is Cody.”

“What’s up, Cody?”

At this point, Cody just smiles, thinking he’s all cute and shit, and turns away. I don’t care, as long as he’s not bothering me. After a few minutes, while I’m trying to talk to Cody’s parents or whatever, he decides he wants to be included. He wanders up and stares at me.

His parents ignore him, because that’s what parents do with kids these days, and he starts pestering me. “I’m Cody.”

“Yeah, dude, I know—I said what’s up a minute ago and you just ignored me like a rude prick.”

This floors everyone, which is freakin’ hilarious. Like if you have some kid bugging you, and his parents won’t do their job and take a little responsibility, just bust out with cuss words. “Damn,” “Hell,” or “Ass” won’t cut it, though. You have to at least break out a “Shit” or a “Bastard.” For me, it only gets fun when you blurt out the big eff or any of the slang words we use for reproductive parts.

Because, as I think society has recently proven, parents only get involved when you fuck shit up with a vengeance. Yes, I’m referring to the tired Grand Theft Auto topic. You have this game, it’s called Grand Theft Auto! You walk around, you steal shit, you kill cops and beat hookers. You shoot everything, and that’s how you win the game. They tried to tell you, people: GRAND THEFT AUTO! But no. In order to get you to be parents, they had to throw in a secret spot where a guy could get a little head, tap a little ass, whatever. And suddenly, the parents are all over this game like flies on a dead cat’s asshole. “Our children!” They scream.

And gamers all over the world just laugh, and go, “Oh, yeah? Is that what you think? Our children!”

But I digress, I believe.

So I’m talking to Cody, for some reason—apparently his parents think it’s great fun to see a child corrupted. Or maybe they don’t hear the “prick” remark. Whatever.

Cody tries to talk to me, he’s being all cute, whatever, and you know what? I want Cody to go away, no matter how cute he is. “So, Cody, what grade are you in?”

“This many.”

“What? What, are you showing me on your hands? That’s ridiculous, Cody—I’m entirely too wasted to be counting things or seeing straight. Just tell me—what grade are you in?”

“I’m in first.”

“How exciting for you. Hey, go grab me a beer or I’ll stab your mom in the eye.”


“Right in the eye. Go get me a beer—it’s the one in the green bottle. And if you bring me a Sprite, I’ll kill your daddy.” See how I help him with his reading skills? And we learn about colors. Man, I should be a teacher.

Cody—if he knows what’s good for him—will grab me a beer, and then we can get down to some serious conversation.

“So Cody, what’s up with your face, man?”

“I want to go play my Gameboy.”

“Not a chance. Remember that thing about your mom’s eyeball? Sit tight, that’s all I’m saying. So—back to your face—what’s up with that, dude? You have like dried chocolate and snot all over the place. Why don’t you wash up? Take a little pride in your appearance?”

“I don’t like washing.”

“But if you don’t wash, you’re just a gross little homeless-guy wannabe. Those guys you see, begging you for a dime, is that what you want to grow up to be?”


“Good. Go wash your face, you little mongloid—you’re freaking me out. Oh, and grab me that bag of chips, too, okay?”

“And then I can play video games?”

“Sure…as long as I’m passed out by the time you get back.”


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